Lev’s still talking. I’m still pretending to listen.
And then Anton looks at me.
I forget my own name. Suddenly, the kitchen, the clink of forks, even Gordo’s loud purr fade out. It’s just him. That unblinking focus, like he’s taking in every breath I’ve taken since the last time we saw each other.
And for a second, I forget that anyone else is here at all.
Fantastic. I’ve officially developed a crush on the scariest man in the room.
31
Anton
When we step into the lift, I hear Boris’s voice before the doors even close.
“… kept us alive when nobody else gave a shit. Men like that? You don’t betray. You don’t question.”
Then Dima—Dima—answers him. The same Dima who’s allergic to small talk. “Controls more than most who are. He’s the one they call when bodies need disappearing or empires need dismantling. Doesn’t need a throne. He has everyone’s secrets.”
Lev tilts his head toward me, smirking. “They’re talking about you. Real touching stuff. Almost sounds like they’d fuck you if you asked nicely.”
Suka.
I’ve got bigger things to think about than their sentimental bullshit. Viktor Kozlov is still out there, and every hour he’s free is another hour he could be moving thePakhan’s stolen money deeper into places we can’t touch. The last confirmed lead we had was two nights ago: a courier moving through a casino back exit with a bag full of cash. The trail’s thin. Too thin.
But their voices carry through the shaft, loud enough that I can make out every word. Boris is telling her about my grandfather working for the Vetrovs back when organized crime was a lifestyle. About the mob being in my genes.
Dima speaks again—that’s two whole sentences in the same morning, which is already a fucking record—and I have no idea who he is anymore.
Lev leans against the wall, grinning. “Better hope she didn’t make them dessert, or they’ll start telling her your shoe size and blood type.”
I ignore him. We’ve gotforty-eight hoursto find Viktor, lock down the bank trail, and cut out anyone tied to him, starting with whoever the fuck is pushing those deposits through Brightside. And if Boris is right, that trail leads straight to the woman they’re sitting with now.
The lift doors slide open. I catch the tail end of Dima’s voice, steady and certain: “Doesn’t like chaos. Ever.”
Then Boris, without missing a beat: “Which… might be a problem.”
The doors slide open, and I step into a scene I never planned for.
Mary. Fitted T-shirt, soft lounge shorts. Hair pulled back loose, like she didn’t care enough to finish the job. Bare feet on my floor.
She’s at the island with a fork in her hand, eating like this is her kitchen. At her feet, the orange cat I saw on her balcony is curled against her leg, tail flicking slow and content.
My men—trained, armed, dangerous—are sitting like they’ve been tamed, plates half-finished in front of them. The smell in the air is warm, heavy with herbs and garlic. Not the scent of a safehouse, but of a home.
It’s… domestic. Too domestic.
Lev steps in behind me, his grin already saying he’s going to make this annoying. His eyes go from her to the plates, to the orange cat on the floor licking his paw like he’s just finished Sunday dinner.
“Well, well,” he says, voice dripping mock admiration. “Lunch with the boys. Getting comfortable, huh?”
Mary stiffens, fingers tightening on the edge of the chair. “I was just—”
“You know too much about us now,” Lev cuts in, still smiling, but the edge is there in his tone. “Guess that means you’re stuck with us.”
He makes it sound like a joke, but something in the way he says it tells me he’s not entirely kidding.
He walks past me, picking up one of the plates from the island. Lifts a fork, tastes. His brows go up.
